Free Fall
by Zebediah
Summary: The story of the only two survivors from the first class section of Oceanic Airlines flight 815, as they unravel the mystery of the Hourglass Station. Original characters!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**  
_**September 22, 2004**_  
_**Oceanic Airlines flight 815, en route to Los Angeles**_

Brandon McDaniel stretched out his legs, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of his first-class seat. He'd finished the job in Sydney ahead of schedule, tracking down the problem in record time and designing a truly elegant hack to fix it. He'd probably saved his company's whole multi-million dollar account with Widmore Industries in the process. His bosses back in Dallas had been pleased enough to spring for a first-class ticket on the trans-Pacific leg of the flight. And, in a true stroke of luck, seat 4A next to him was empty. He had all the room he wanted to stretch out and relax. Airline travel was usually torture for him; his 6-foot-4-inch frame was uncomfortably cramped in an ordinary coach seat, and never mind that all of the airlines had been cutting back on in-flight service to coach customers the past three years. But Oceanic Airlines, at least, still gave first-class treatment to its first-class passengers.

He glanced out the window at the Pacific Ocean thirty thousand feet below. There was no land in sight, nothing but a seemingly endless expanse of blue water. They'd be past Fiji by now, he guessed, somewhere near the equator, if not across it already. Although the pilot surely would have told them if they'd crossed either the equator or the International Date Line…

Brandon's thoughts were abruptly cut off by a low booming noise and a sudden shudder that passed the length of the aircraft. The left wing dropped and the plane lurched, and a woman who had been passing by him in the aisle stumbled, lost her footing, and fell into his lap. Brandon caught her, and held on to her until the turbulence stopped and the plane righted itself.

"Are you OK?" he asked, helping her back to her feet.

She looked at him and smiled, blushing slightly. She was a petite woman in her late twenties, Asian in coloration and features, dressed in a white blouse and a gray wool skirt. "I'm fine, thanks. Just picked the wrong time to go to the bathroom," she said in a southern California accent, straightening her clothes. And then, with a slightly impish grin, she added, "Nice catch."

"My pleasure," Brandon said, grinning back. "I think…"

The plane hit another pocket of turbulence, and the woman grabbed the back of Brandon's seat, managing to keep her balance this time. Seconds later, a stewardess came on the intercom and instructed everyone to return to their seats and strap in.

"Here," Brandon said impulsively, unbuckling his belt and sliding to into the empty seat to his left. "You might not make it back to your seat before it happens again." _What the hell, she's cute,_ he thought.

"Probably not," she agreed, grinning at Brandon's transparent ploy to get her to sit next to him. But she slipped into the seat he had just vacated, reaching for the belt. "Besides, how could…"

She never completed the sentence. The plane seemed to drop beneath them, and, since neither of them had finished fastening their belts, they both flew up towards the overhead compartments. Brandon took the impact on his shoulder, then fell back into his seat. The young woman struck headfirst, and then fell on top of Brandon, dazed. Brandon threw one arm over her to hold her down, and desperately searched for his seat belt with his free hand.

The plane began descending at a sharp angle, pinning Brandon to his seat. He abandoned the hunt for his seat belt and grabbed the woman with both arms, bracing his feet against the back of the seat in front of him. There were panicked screams from the rest of the cabin, and cries of "Oh my God!" and "What's happening?"

And then there was a loud _whoosh_ and a fierce wind, all loose objects flying towards the rear of the plane, and what looked like sunlight behind them. "The tail's gone!" Brandon heard someone scream. _We're crashing,_ he thought, paralyzed with the shock of it.

A violent shaking, a tearing of metal, and he saw blue sky overhead. His seat dropped away from beneath him, the air seemed to tear the woman from his arms, and he felt himself falling, tumbling through the air, blue sky and white clouds above, blue water below, and – something else. Land? He couldn't tell. All he could think was, _I'm falling I'm falling Oh God I'm falling,_ and, _I'm going to die._

He stopped tumbling after a few seconds, and found himself falling face-down, the air trying to push his arms and legs together behind his back. He saw dark green, and brown – it _was_ land. But where? As far as he knew, they shouldn't have been anywhere near land, and for some reason he wanted to know the name of the place where he was going to die, which would be in only a few minutes. How high had be been when the plane broke up? And how long did it take to fall that far? Stray thoughts flashed though his mind and were gone: _Never did get to see Alaska_ and _Mom's going to be mad that I never gave her any grandkids_ and _Damn, I'm glad I divorced Arlene._ And, _I spent my last minutes of life flirting with a cute stranger. There are worse ways to go…_

Falling, falling, and then the ground was coming close, and his final minutes ticked down to seconds, and he made what peace he could with his imminent death. But one question wouldn't go away: _Why?_ There was no answering it, and no time, because the treetops were rushing towards him, and something else, something like a black cloud boiling upward out of the ground: _What the hell?_ he thought.

Then the blackness surrounded him, seemed to grab at him, knocked the air from his lungs, and for a time his thoughts vanished and he knew only darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2  
__****February 16, 1991**  
_**Saudi Arabia**_

_Night in the Arabian desert was dark, darker than any that Lieutenant McDaniel had ever known. Occasionally he could see flashes on the horizon to the northeast, across the border in Kuwait, and streaks of light across the sky: the Air Force doing its work, pounding the hell out of the Iraqis, destroying their ability to resist invasion. So the top brass said, and so McDaniel hoped. His infantry platoon would be on the sharp end of it when the ground campaign started._

_They'd been deployed since mid-January, and his men were getting anxious, tired of waiting in this godforsaken desert, ready for something, anything, to break the routine and the boredom. Even if it meant coming under enemy fire. It would be something to tell the folks back home, anyway, better than "What did I do in the war? Sat on my ass and got sunburned, that's what."_

_Night, dark as sin, and the men under McDaniel's command passed the time the way soldiers everywhere did, and had always done – griping about the food, the water, the heat, the cold, the sand; speculating about what their orders would be and when they would get them; telling all manner of bad jokes, crude jokes, dirty jokes, downright filthy jokes, and even the occasional clean joke when their supply of untold jokes ran low._

"_So, you see, there was this guy, falling off the Empire State Building, right? And he's falling, and as he passes the fiftieth floor, someone shouts, 'Hey, how you doin'?' And the falling guy, he shouts back, 'I'm OK so far!'"_

_There were a few snorts of laughter, and then one of the men said in a thick-as-molasses Tennessee drawl, "Man, that is one fucked-up story. There's no way he'd have been able to talk to that guy on the fiftieth floor while he was falling. He'd be moving too fast"_

"_Aw, for Chrissake, Futrell, give it a rest already, OK? It's a joke. It's supposed to be funny. It don't have to make sense."_

"_Oh." There was a long pause, and then, "Well, maybe if it had been funny, I'd have known you were telling a joke."_

_Even McDaniel, who was officially "not there" so as not to put a damper on the men's conversation, had to laugh at that one. Private Futrell looked around with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, slowly coming to the realization that he'd said something funny._

"_You wanna know what's fucked up, Futrell?" Corporal Walton said. "You're so damned dumb, you don't even get the joke when it's you telling it."_

_There were howls of laughter in the dark, and for a few minutes, they were able to forget the desert, forget the Iraqi Army and Republican Guard waiting for them across the border, forget that, in a few days or a week or maybe a month, they'd get their orders to move, and find themselves under fire. So far, they were OK._

* * *

_**September 22, 2004**_  
_**The Island**_

He woke.

His head hurt.

Actually, pretty damned near all of him hurt. Brandon McDaniel felt as if he'd been beaten up, repeatedly, for a week.

Which was pretty remarkable, he thought, considering that he was supposed to be dead.

He opened his eyes. Afternoon sunlight filtered through dense green foliage. He couldn't see the sky. He was lying on a thick layer of damp, fetid, decaying leaves, on a steep hillside. He could hear a faint sound of waves breaking, the calls of strange birds, some animal rustling through the trees not far away.

Brandon slowly sat up and took stock of himself. He had no broken bones, as far as he could tell; not even any serious cuts, just a few scratches on his arms, the blood already dried on them.

He'd just fallen – how far? Thousands of feet, at least; a mile, maybe more. He should be dead. Nobody could survive a fall like that. Yet here he was.

Wherever "here" was. Brandon hauled himself painfully to his feet, feeling every muscle. He hurt too damned much to be dead, for what that was worth.

He headed downhill, slowly, his legs wobbling. It was hard forcing his way through the thick jungle growth, and he made little progress. On the other hand, he thought, the undergrowth was probably all that was keeping him from slipping down the hill and breaking his neck. It would be terribly ironic for him to survive an impossible fall, only to kill himself climbing down a hill…

His running shoes weren't the best for climbing, but he pushed onward, not knowing what else to do. After an hour, he was hot and sweaty, his arms were a maze of scratches, and his khaki pants and Oxford shirt were becoming badly torn. He heard the sound of falling water near him, and headed for it. He found a small stream trickling down the hillside. He knelt beside it, cupped his hands and filled them, drank deeply. The water was warm, and tasted of his own blood and sweat.

He followed the stream bed down, making better time. The sun was low on the horizon when he finally found his way free of the jungle and onto a broad, sandy beach. He was in a small cove, a couple of hundred yards across, with rocky promontories cutting it off on both sides. The waves broke on a submerged reef near the mouth of the cove, leaving the water in the cove itself clear and calm.

He saw something in the water out by the breakers. A seal? Did they have seals in the tropics? Brandon didn't know. And then the figure rode a breaker across the reef into the calm water of the cove, legs kicking, arms reaching forward in an Australian crawl. A person! Another survivor? He didn't know, but he shouted, started waving his arms.

The swimmer made steady progress towards shore, and Brandon waded out waist-deep to meet her – she was clearly a woman. She was naked, he saw as she came closer – no, she had on a black thong bottom, although nothing else – and she was terribly sunburned on her back and legs. And she was clearly exhausted, barely making it the last few yards towards shore.

Brandon caught her in his arms and helped her stagger through the shallows to the dry sand of the beach. She dropped to her knees, then retched, vomiting salt water onto the sand.

Then she looked up at him, blinking rapidly, clearly not sure she could trust her eyes. Her chapped lips formed the word "You", though the only sound her parched throat could make was a hoarse croak.

Brandon nodded, having recognized her the moment he pulled her from the water. "It's me," he said to the woman he had met on the plane, suddenly aware that he didn't even know her name. "Don't ask me how, but we're both alive."

She closed her eyes then, and slowly went limp, fainting into unconsciousness as the tropical sun made its swift descent below the horizon, plunging the island into a night even darker than what Brandon had known in the Arabian desert.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**  
_**September 23, 2004**_  
_**The Island**_

Brandon stumbled across the beach, finding his way by moonlight towards the freshwater stream. He took off his shirt and immersed it in the warm water, soaking it thoroughly, and then took it back to where the unconscious woman lay on the sand. He squeezed some water from the fabric into her mouth, enough to wet her throat, and then turned her over on her stomach and spread the damp shirt across her back, trying to cool her sunburned skin. She moaned weakly a few times but did not awaken.

He didn't sleep. The gibbous moon set sometime after midnight, and then the night became truly dark. Strange hoots and howls echoed through the jungle, though he couldn't imagine what kind of animal might make them. He searched the starry sky, looking vainly for the lights of an aircraft or the flash of a satellite, but saw nothing that would prove that there were other humans in the cosmos besides himself and the nameless woman lying next to him.

Somehow they made it through the night.

The woman began to stir just after daybreak. Brandon found a large shell on the beach and used it to bring her water. He helped her sit up and held the shell to her mouth, letting her drink. He made several trips back and forth to the stream, bringing back a few ounces of water for her at a time.

"Thank you," she croaked hoarsely, after swallowing the fourth shellful of water. She looked around then, taking in their surroundings. She sat up straighter, brushed some of the sand from her breasts and stomach, and pulled Brandon's shirt closed across her chest.

"Where are we?" she asked.

Brandon shook his head. "No idea," he admitted. "Fiji, maybe, or Tahiti. An island, anyway." Then, "I'm Brandon, by the way. McDaniel."

She smiled weakly. "Wendy," she said. "Wendy Chau. Pleased to meet you."

"How do you feel?" Brandon asked.

"Terrible," she said. "God, I'm thirsty. And my back is on fire."

"You got a pretty bad sunburn yesterday," he said. "How far did you swim, anyway?"

"Oh, God. Miles," Wendy said, shaking her head. "I landed in the water. Don't ask me how I survived the fall. I saw land, figured I was maybe five miles offshore, so I started swimming." Then she looked down and said, "Thanks for the shirt, by the way. My clothes were dragging in the water too much, so I got rid of them. I don't think I'd have made it if I'd kept them."

Brandon nodded. "No problem. Keep it." Then, with a smile, he said, "It looks better on you anyway."

Wendy gave him an appreciative grin. "Damned right it does," she said.

Brandon stood up and looked around. "Well, we have water," he said. "Food and shelter are the next two priorities, I think."

"God, yes," Wendy agreed. "I'm starving. Any signs of people? A town, village, anything?"

Brandon shook his head. "Got to be somebody nearby, though. There ought to be a pretty good view from out on that point," he said, pointing towards one of the rocky promontories that framed the cove. "I'll head up there and do a recon. You stay in the shade – you don't need to get sunburned any worse than you already are."

Wendy nodded, and Brandon set off for the point. He scrambled over the ochre rocks, climbing up until he had a clear view up and down the coast.

He looked east, then west – nothing. There were no houses or huts, not so much as a line of smoke from a cooking fire – nothing to indicate that the island was inhabited. "That's not right," he muttered to himself. As far as he knew, there weren't any uninhabited islands of this size in the central Pacific; the Polynesians had discovered and colonized every speck of land that could possibly support human life centuries ago. And yet, there was nothing. "Got to be somebody here," he said.

He turned around, looking inland. A ridge ran inland from the point, upwards to a rocky peak. And on the peak, he saw something. He shaded his eyes, tried to make out details – it looked like a white domed roof of some kind.

"There we go!" he shouted, and scrambled back down the rocks to the beach.

On the way back down, he saw something wedged between two rocks. It turned out to be a small, light blue Samsonite hardshell suitcase, battered but intact. He grabbed it and took it with him.

"Any luck?" Wendy asked him when he reached her. She was sitting in the shade of a palm tree.

"Jackpot!" Brandon said. "There's some kind of building up the ridge – it's a hike, but I think we could make it there by noon. And I found this – must be from the plane."

"Oh, please, let it be clothes," Wendy said, reaching for the suitcase. The latches were jammed, but Brandon was able to pry them open after a few minutes. They opened up the suitcase, and started searching through its contents.

Brandon pulled out a pair of plaid shorts and held them up. They were clearly meant for a woman much larger than Wendy, who was only a couple of inches over five feet. "Um, I don't think these are going to fit you so well," he said.

Wendy was holding a blouse made of bright pink-and-yellow floral polyester fabric. She grimaced, then said, "Beggars can't be choosers, I guess. It'll have to do." She turned away from Brandon, slipped out of his shirt, and pulled the blouse over her head. When she stood, it hung past her knees.

"Um… nice," Brandon said dubiously.

"Yeah, uh, thanks," Wendy said, and then she started giggling.

"And it could double as a tent," he added, and started chuckling back. That caused Wendy to laugh even harder, which made Brandon howl until tears fell down his cheeks.

And then Wendy's laughter turned without warning to tears. She started cursing under her breath, and then screaming. She tore the oversized blouse off and flung it away from her as hard as she could, and then she knelt naked on the sand and sobbed uncontrollably.

Brandon grabbed his shirt and spread it across her back, and then gently put an arm around her. She turned towards him and buried her face in his chest. "Hey, hey," he whispered, trying to comfort her.

Her sobs slowly subsided. "I'm sorry," Wendy said. "I'm sorry. It's just too much. I'm hungry and thirsty and my back is on fire and I don't know where the hell I am and I don't have anything to wear besides one pair of panties and a shirt I borrowed from you, and that blouse… That damned flowery hideous _thing_…"

"Keep the shirt," Brandon said. "And look – I found something else in there."

Wendy looked up at him, and he smiled, holding up a hand to show her a small package of cheese crackers.

"Food!" Wendy shouted. "Oh, God, you're a lifesaver!" Brandon opened the package and gave her three of the crackers, keeping the other three for himself. They both wolfed them down.

"Better now? Brandon asked when they were done.

Wendy nodded. "Better now." She stood, slipped her arms into the sleeves of her shirt, and started buttoning it. "So let's go check out that building up the hill, OK?"

Brendan smiled. "Let's get moving then."

They started up the hill.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4  
**_**January 4, 1991  
**__**Fort Benning, Georgia**_

_Lieutenant McDaniel was discovering that deploying a United States Army infantry platoon for combat duty required a shocking amount of paperwork. Travel authorizations, combat pay authorizations, next-of-kin designations, equipment manifests – it took two weeks just to get all of the forms filled out._

_Today it was inventory of personal equipment stored on-base. Each soldier had to fill out forms listing anything he was leaving behind. And, this being the Army, there were different forms for different kinds of property._

"_All right, listen up," Sergeant Gunter barked. "Vehicles to be left on base. Take one form per vehicle you're storing – this one if you have a car, this one if you have a truck. List the license tag, VIN number, and insurance. Move it!"_

_Gunter was an old, dark-skinned black man with a shaved head and massive shoulders. He'd been in since 1968, and had seen combat in Viet Nam – the only man in the room to have ever come under fire. McDaniel had been a bit intimidated to have this bull of a man placed under his command. What business did a newly-commissioned 2__nd__ lieutenant have bossing a combat vet like Gunter? But then he realized – Gunter was there to keep McDaniel from making a fool of himself. He did a good job of it, too. And his decades of military experience were at McDaniel's disposal._

"_Sergeant, when you get done passing out those forms, could I see you in my office?" he said._

"_Yessir," Gunter said, handing out forms._

_Inevitably, it was Private Futrell who made trouble. He was a good kid, but didn't have an ounce of common sense, and never could figure out that privates weren't supposed to talk back to sergeants. "Sergeant Gunter, you gave me the wrong form!" he complained._

"_No I didn't," Gunter barked. "You've got a Ford Explorer. It goes on the car form."_

"_But Sergeant Gunter, my Explorer is a truck!"_

_Gunter fixed Futrell with a baleful stare. "Does it have a goddamned roof?"_

"_Uh, yes, Sergeant…"_

"_Does it have a goddamned bed?"_

"_Yes it does, Sergeant, but…"_

"_It's a goddamned station wagon. Fill out the form!"_

"_But Sergeant…" Futrell spotted McDaniel, and decided to appeal to a higher authority. "Lieutenant, the Sergeant wants me to put my truck on the car form!"_

_McDaniel frowned. "Private, I don't give a damn if he told you to fill out the form for a car, or a truck, or a goddamned tank! Sergeant Gunter has been filling out forms for this Army since before you were born, so if he tells you to fill out the car form, you FILL OUT THE DAMNED FORM! Am I getting through to you?"_

_Futrell, appropriately chastened, said "Loud and clear, sir!"_

"_Good!" McDaniel barked. "Sergeant, you're with me!"_

"_Yessir!" Gunter followed McDaniel into his office, and closed the door._

_The two men looked at each other, and then simultaneously burst into laughter._

"_Sergeant Gunter, my Explorer is a truck!" McDaniel said, in a fair imitation of Futrell's Appalachian mountain drawl._

"_He's been filling out forms for this Army since before you were born," Gunter quoted back, pointing a finger at McDaniel. "Sir," he added._

_McDaniel shook his head. "Sit down, Sergeant. I need help figuring out this damned weapons req." Then he added, "Sergeant, why the hell do we put up with Futrell?"_

_Gunter looked straight at McDaniel, and said, "I'll tell you why, sir. Because when the shit hits the fan, he'll do his job."_

_McDaniel looked thoughtful. "You really think so?"_

"_Sir, I've been in the shit before. Some guys you just know are going to break, and some you know won't break no matter what flies their way. Futrell – he may be a pain in the ass, but he'll do his job when it gets hot. I'm willing to put up with a certain amount of crap for a man like that."_

_McDaniel nodded. "Looks like I'll get the chance to see it for myself."_

"_Yessir," Gunter agreed. "You'll find out what I'm talking about soon enough. Some men, you just know they're up to the job." Then, in a vaguely fatherly tone, he added, "You're one of them."_

_McDaniel was quiet for a minute, and then said, "Thanks, Sergeant. I'll do my best."_

_Gunter actually smiled then. "You'll do damned good, sir."_

* * *

_**September 23, 2004  
**__**The Island**_

They found something like a path going up the side of the ridge. It was more of a game trail than a path made for humans, but it was better than beating through the brush.

"So what do you think made this path?" Wendy asked him.

"Pigs," Brandon answered.

"Pigs?"

He nodded, and pointed at a patch of bare earth. "Look here," he said. "See that footprint? That's a pig track. The Polynesians took pigs with them when the colonized the Pacific islands."

Wendy shrugged. "I'll take your word for it," she said, as they started back up the hill. "Where did you learn how to track, anyway?"

"In the Army," he said. "Went to college on an ROTC scholarship, spent six years on active duty after that, and another five in the reserves."

"Did you ever do any – you know, fighting?"

Brandon smiled. "You mean combat? I was in Kuwait in '91, and Somalia in '92."

"But you're out now?" she asked.

He nodded. "Resigned my commission in August 2001. And I damn near asked to be reinstated the following month, but I'd just started a new job, and I knew if I went back I'd never get out again."

"So what do you do now?"

"I'm a customer support engineer for a company that makes hydraulic jacks and lifts."

"Um… OK," she said. "I can see you're lots of fun at parties."

"Oh, loads," he said, laughing. "So what do you do, hey?"

"I'm an international sales representative for a packaging manufacturer."

"Packaging?"

"Yeah, you know," she said, grinning. "Boxes."

"You work for a company that makes boxes."

She nodded. "And bubble wrap."

"So, you were in Sydney selling bubble wrap to Australians?"

"That's more or less it, yeah."

"Well, I can see you've got me all beat for glamour and excitement."

She laughed. "Hey, it's a booming business! We got bought out last year, and the new owner – well, nobody seems to know who he is or how he does it, but sales are up a hundred and fifty percent over last year. I've been flying all over the place – Japan, Taiwan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Hong Kong…"

Brandon grinned at her. "Peddling boxes in all kinds of exotic locales, hey?"

"Just shoot me if I ever have to go back to Jakarta, though. Oh my God, what an awful place!" Wendy grimaced, and added, "Traveling all the time really sucks, you know? I have all kinds of horror stories. But it's not like I have a social life at home or anything…"

"No boyfriend?"

"Divorced, no kids, no boyfriend, nothing," she said. "God, I sound bitter, don't I?"

"And to add to your horrible travel stories, now you have a genuine plane crash."

"On a genuine deserted island, no less," she added. "Where is that place you saw, anyway?"

Brandon stopped. "Up there," he said, pointing ahead.

Through the trees, they could make out a domed roof, with what looked like giant doors on one side.

"An observatory?" Wendy said doubtfully. "Well, let's go see if Carl Sagan is home."

"I doubt it," Brandon said. "He's dead, isn't he?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5  
**_**September 23, 2004  
**__**The Island**_

"Hello!" Brandon called as they approached the observatory. "Anyone here?"

"Looks pretty deserted to me," Wendy said.

The observatory was a circular concrete building roughly 40 feet in diameter, with a large aluminum dome for a roof. The dome had once been painted white, but much of the paint had peeled off, leaving only a few patches of dirty white covering the metal. A small rectangular wing adjoined one side, looking for all the world like a small but ordinary suburban wooden frame house with a large front porch, painted a faded yellow color with white trim. There were even planter boxes below the windows, containing the long-deceased stems of flowers.

"That looks like it might be the dorm, or office, or something like that," Brandon said. "Let's check it out."

They advanced cautiously. Brandon walked up onto the porch and looked through a window. "I think you're right," he said. "Deserted."

There was a metal sign next to the door, showing an octagonal logo with an hourglass symbol in the center. "Any idea what this means?" Brandon asked.

Wendy shook her head, then tried the front door, which was unlocked. Brandon followed her inside into the front room, which was furnished with cheap office chairs and metal desks, and lots of empty metal shelves. A door on one side was clearly the access to the observatory, another doorway led to a small kitchen, and yet another door opened onto a room with two twin beds. One final door revealed a tiny bathroom. Brandon automatically reached for a light switch and flicked it upwards; somewhat to his surprise, the bathroom light came on.

"There's still electricity," he said. "That's a good sign."

"Please, let there be water," Wendy said, trying the bathroom sink. There were a few gurgles, a groaning of pipes, a brief spurt of brown water, and finally a steady flow of clear water.

"Let that run a bit before you try to use it," Brandon said. "Let's check out the kitchen."

They both shouted for joy when they discovered a pantry cabinet filled with boxes. "I hope these things have a long shelf life," Wendy said. "There's no telling how long they've been here."

"Well, there's still electricity and water, so somebody is maintaining this place, if only occasionally," Brandon said. "And look – no insects, not even much dust. It's not totally abandoned."

Wendy was examining a black-and-white box she'd pulled out of the pantry. "'Dharma Initiative Saltine Crackers'," she read. "Dharma Initiative? What's that?"

Brandon looked at the box, which had a logo very similar to the one by the front door, except where that one had an hourglass in the middle, this one had the word "DHARMA". "And why do they have their own brand of crackers?" he asked, pulling out another box. with a black-and-white octagonal logo. "And look – 'Dharma Initiative Instant Mashed Potatoes'."

"'Use before April 8, 2005'," Wendy read from the box of crackers. "Good enough for me," she said, tearing it open.

Brandon opened another cabinet, full of cans with black-and-white labels. "Pork and beans, spaghetti sauce, lima beans, peanut butter – whatever this Dharma Initiative is, they have a full line of products," he said.

They had an impromptu meal then, of saltine crackers and peanut butter. "Oh my God, cheap generic peanut butter never tasted so good!" Wendy said.

"Well, we aren't going to starve, at least," Brandon said. "There ought to be some kind of rescue operation underway by now, and we ought to be able to see them from here."

"What if they think we're all dead?" Wendy asked.

"They'll still look for the plane wreckage," Brandon assured her. "They'll want to know what happened. Within another 24 hours I'll bet we'll see ships and helicopters all over the place. I'm surprised we haven't seen some already."

"Better find some clothes then," Wendy said.

In the bedroom, they found a trunk that contained several khaki-colored coveralls. They all had Dharma logos stenciled on the right breast, and some had the words "STEPHEN – Physicist" under the logo, while others were labeled "FRED – Physicist".

"So, we're physicists, are we? Do you want to be STEPHEN or FRED?" Brandon asked.

Wendy held up a STEPHEN coverall, and said, "Looks like they're both way too big for me."

Brandon shrugged. "Well, there's also a big stack of white t-shirts and boxer shorts." He pulled out one of the t-shirts and put it on.

"Let me try those," Wendy said. She took a t-shirt, turned away from Brandon and slipped out of the shirt he had loaned her, and pulled the t-shirt over her head. It covered her to mid-thigh. She stepped into a pair of boxers and pulled them up, then frowned. "Loose, but I can live with it," she said. "At least I won't be running around half-naked when they find us."

"And speaking of that," Brandon said, "I'd be willing to bet there's a radio around here somewhere. Probably in the dome. Want to help me look?"

The door to the dome was stuck, and Brandon had to lean hard against it to make it move. It swung slowly open with a loud, rusty squeak. He turned the lights on, and they saw a large cylinder mounted on huge gimbals in the center of the room.

"Wow, that's way bigger than my dad's telescope," Wendy said. "He's an astronomy nut. This looks pretty much like the one he has, except about twenty times bigger."

The walls were lined with cabinets, and Brandon started looking through them. Most of them were empty. "Got to be a radio here, right?" he muttered to himself. "But where is it?"

"Hey, look at this," Wendy said, holding up a small rectangular plastic box. It had a white label on it with the octagonal hourglass logo, and the words HOURGLASS STATION ORIENTATION printed on it. "It's a videotape. It might tell us something about this place. There's a TV over here with a player…"

"Let's have a look," Brandon said. And then, "My God, it's Betamax! I haven't seen one of these since I was a kid."

"What's a Betamax?" Wendy asked.

"Old videotape format," Brandon explained, putting it into the player. "I hope it still works."

The television screen lit up with the Dharma logo and the words STATION 15 – THE HOURGLASS. Then a middle-aged Asian man in a white lab coat appeared on the screen and began speaking, but no sound came from the TV speakers. Brandon turned the volume all the way up, jiggled the connection wires, even tried whacking the TV case on the side, but the speakers remained silent.

"So much for that," Brandon said. "Unless you can read lips."

Wendy shook her head. "He looks like my Uncle Frank," she said.

"Really?" Brandon asked. "Is he a scientist or something?"

"No, an actor," Wendy answered. "This isn't him, but there's a pretty strong resemblance."

"Great," Brandon said, turning off the television. "Well, I don't see a radio. We'll just have to wait for someone to find us."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6  
**_**August 15, 2002  
**__**Tustin, California**_

_It had been an awful trip. Wendy had spent a week in Seoul trying to finalize an account with a major Korean automotive manufacturer, working fifteen-hour days, having to speak through an interpreter because none of the Paik Automotive executives spoke English, and they seemed to take it as a personal affront that she spoke no Korean. Her hotel was nice enough, but she had little time to enjoy it - she fell into bed exhausted as soon as she returned to her room each night, and left early the next morning. And all for nothing; she hadn't been able to close the deal._

_And then her flight home to Los Angeles had been delayed for eight hours. Naturally, her luggage hadn't made the flight with her. Apparently it was in Honolulu, having gone by way of Hong Kong. She'd almost vowed never to fly Oceanic again, but she was getting close to the point of earning a first-class upgrade with her frequent flyer miles, and she didn't want to lose that. To top it off, her idiot husband hadn't been there at the airport to pick her up, so she'd had to take a cab._

_So she was fuming as she walked up the steps to her apartment and shoved her keys into the door. "Scott!" she screamed as soon as the door was open. "You'd better be dead, that's all I have to say!"_

_She heard noise coming from their bedroom, and headed for it, ready to tear Scott a new one if he had overslept until two in the afternoon. She shoved the door open, and then stopped cold._

_Scott was in bed, all right. So was Wendy's sister Amy._

"_Uh, hi, honey," was all Scott could think to say._

_It was too much. She turned and went back to the living room, tears filling her eyes. She spotted their wedding portrait on the mantle, and she grabbed it, letting out a scream of pure rage, and threw it to the floor, smashing the glass and the frame._

_Then she went to the kitchen and found the phone book, started searching through the Yellow Pages. Scott came out of the bedroom, wearing a towel around his waist. "Um..." he began, but Wendy cut him off._

"_How the hell could you do this, Scott! And my God, with Amy? What the hell were you thinking?"_

_Scott was silent for a moment, then said, "You really want to know?"_

_Wendy turned and stared at him in pure hatred, but said nothing._

"_It's because she was here, and you weren't," Scott said._

_Wendy closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. Then she turned away from Scott and began searching through the Yellow Pages again, reaching for the phone. "What are you doing?" Scott asked._

"_Calling a lawyer," Wendy said curtly._

"_What do you need a lawyer for?" Scott asked._

"_For the divorce we're about to have, you fucking idiot." She turned back towards him and said, "Start getting your things packed. Have Amy help you. She's welcome to you. You'll make a perfect pair, a loser and a slut."_

"_Wendy, wait…"_

"_You've got an hour," she snapped. "Get moving."_

* * *

_**September 23, 2004  
**__**The Hourglass Station**_

Dinner was Dharma Initiative spaghetti with meatballs cooked in the observatory's kitchen. Brandon pronounced it "nearly as edible as an MRE," sending Wendy into a fit of uncontrollable giggling.

"Oh, God, listen to me, I sound like an idiot," she said.

"Hey, we're both tired," Brandon said. "Exhausted. You swam five miles yesterday, and I didn't sleep last night. Never mind that we were both in a plane crash. We ought to turn in early so we can be in better shape tomorrow."

"Get up bright and early and start looking for the rescue boats?"

"That's the idea, yeah. And we should gather wood for a signal fire."

"So how do we light this fire, Captain?" Wendy teased.

"With," Brandon said, rising and opening a kitchen cabinet, "Dharma Initiative Waterproof Matches, and a healthy dose of Dharma Initiative Lighter Fluid."

Wendy laughed. "What, no rubbing sticks together?"

"There's a rule I learned in the Army," Brandon answered. "When in doubt, apply overwhelming firepower."

"Works for me," Wendy said. "God, now for a hot shower, and then bed."

"You go first," Brandon offered. "I'll clean up in here."

"No way, Captain," Wendy countered. "You cooked, so I do the dishes. Get in that shower, on the double!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Brandon said, grinning and giving her a salute.

Brandon had grown to appreciate what a luxury hot showers truly were during the Gulf War. He was reminded of it yet again, and decided that it ought to be considered western civilization's highest achievement.

"Shower's all yours!" he shouted after he was done. Wendy nearly knocked him down as she ran into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Brandon just shook his head and grinned, and found a pair of FRED's boxer shorts to wear to bed. He pulled the sheets over himself and sighed gratefully.

He was already half asleep when Wendy came out of the shower. She came into the bedroom and stood by the bed opposite Brandon for a minute. Then, coming to a decision, she turned and slipped between the sheets of Brandon's bed.

"Hm?" he said, waking himself back up.

"Do you mind?" Wendy asked. "I mean, I just want you to hold me, and not take it any farther. Can we do that, just for tonight? I really don't want to sleep alone."

"Sure," Brandon answered, allowing the brief fantasy he'd entertained to evaporate. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and slowly relaxed.

"God, what a mess I am," Wendy said after a minute.

"What?" Brandon asked, confused. "I don't think so. You've had a rough couple of days, sure."

"It's more than that," she said. "I'm an idiot. I mean, this is every woman's fantasy, right? Stranded on a deserted island with a really hot guy who's a complete gentleman. Oh my God, I'm living in a cheap romance novel! But they never write about the sunburn and the sand and the hunger and thirst, do they?"

"Don't know," Brandon answered. "I never read the things. I'm a sci-fi junkie."

She laughed then, and hugged him tightly. "God, I'm confused," she said.

"Me too," he said.

"Oh, I'm babbling like an idiot," she said. "You probably think I'm some kind of psycho."

"No, I think you're just exhausted. Let's get some sleep, and maybe it'll make more sense in the morning."

"Don't count on it," she mumbled. Then her whole body relaxed as she drifted off to sleep.

Brandon, on the other hand, was now wide awake, wondering what to make of the conversation they had just had, and acutely aware that the woman sleeping in his arms was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt. And there were strange sounds out in the jungle again, as if some enormous creature was crashing through the trees. "Probably just a pig," he finally told himself, and he let himself sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7  
**_**September 24, 2004  
**__**The Hourglass Station**_

Brandon dumped another load of wood onto the growing pile outside of the observatory. "Seen anything?" he called to Wendy.

"Not a thing," she answered. She scanned the horizon through a pair of binoculars that they'd found inside the station. "Zero, zip, nada. Nobody's out there."

"I don't get it," Brandon said. "They ought to be looking for us."

"You want to take a look yourself?" she asked.

"No, I believe you," he said. "I just don't understand it."

"Maybe they don't know where the plane crashed," she suggested.

Brandon didn't say anything for a minute; he just looked out at the horizon with a puzzled expression. Finally he said, "If there are villages or towns, they'd probably be down by the shore. On the other hand, we'd get a better view from up on the peak."

"Funny they put the observatory down here instead of up there," Wendy said. "The mountain blocks out a big chunk of the sky."

"Who knows? Maybe the peak is sacred or something."

"So, are you thinking of going out to look for someone?" she asked.

Brandon shrugged. "It might be the only thing we can do. I mean, we've got food here for a couple of months, and clearly somebody is maintaining the place, but who knows how long it will be before they look in here again?"

Wendy nodded, but said nothing. Instead, she put her arms around Brandon and hugged him.

Brandon smiled. "What's this for?"

"Thanks for last night," Wendy said. "I know I probably confused the hell out of you with all of my babbling, but I just needed some comfort."

"Well, it was mighty comfortable for me too."

Wendy smiled. "Yeah, it was," she said quietly.

"How's your sunburn doing?" Brandon asked.

"Lots better," she said. "I'm surprised at how fast it's fading, actually. I thought I'd peel like a snake, but it's turning into a pretty nice tan."

"Be careful, though, or you'll burn all over again. Why didn't the Dharma Initiative make any sunscreen?"

"They're astronomers, remember? They're nocturnal. They only come out at night."

"Good point," Brandon said, laughing. "I'm going for another load of firewood. Then let's have some lunch, OK?"

"Fine by me!" Wendy said.

Brandon went back into the jungle. He'd already gathered most of the easily collected deadwood near the observatory, so it took him a while to get a good load. As he turned to head back towards the Hourglass Station, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.

He froze immediately, but he didn't see it again. He had no idea what it was; he'd just caught a glimpse of a shadow through the trees. He carefully set down his load of wood, and started moving as quietly as he could in the direction he thought it had gone.

Again, he saw a fast movement, just at the edge of his peripheral vision. And once again, when he turned to look, it was gone. Brandon shook his head. "Can't go off chasing phantoms, McDaniel, or you'll get yourself good and lost," he muttered. "Better head back."

He headed back towards his pile of wood, but when he came to it, he froze once again. This time there was no mistaking what he saw. It was enormous, and white, and furry: a giant albino bear, sniffing at the wood he'd gathered.

A part of Brandon's mind was screaming about the impossibility of what he was seeing, but his military training took over and he began searching for any potential escape routes, while backing slowly away from the bear. But it was too late; the bear looked in his direction, snarled, and charged.

Brandon took the only option he saw: he turned and ran towards the observatory as fast as he could. He remembered something about how fast bears could run, though, and didn't think he had much chance of making it. He didn't dare look back, but the sound of the bear's footsteps was getting closer at an alarming rate.

Then, without warning, something black flashed past him, and the bear bellowed in what sounded like pain. Brandon did turn to look then, and saw that the bear had somehow fallen on its side and was struggling to get up. He didn't stop to find out what had caused his stroke of good luck; he took off towards the observatory again at top speed.

"Wendy!" he screamed when he got within sight of the station. "Get inside! Quick!"

Wendy turned to stare at him, and then her eyes grew wide and she sprinted towards the front door. Brandon reached it a second after she did, and slammed the door behind him.

"What the hell is a polar bear doing out there?" Wendy shouted.

Brandon didn't have time to answer, because a huge white paw broke through the front window, sending glass flying through the room. "The dome!" Brandon shouted, and they both dove for the big metal door. Brandon shoved it closed after they were inside.

They both sank to the floor, breathing heavily and staring at each other with wide eyes. They heard sounds of crashing from the other side of the door, and Brandon began searching for something – anything – he could use to brace the door if the bear tried to get through. But a few seconds later, there was an exceptionally loud roar that ended in a startling scream, a series of loud _thumps_, and then silence.

They both sat by the door for a minute, too stunned to move. Then, Wendy whispered, "Is it gone?"

Brandon motioned her to get away from the door, and then opened it a crack. The office area was wrecked, and the front door had been splintered, but there was no sign of the bear. He opened the door farther, ready to slam it shut again at the slightest sound, and stepped into the litter of glass and wood in the office. He looked out the window, and nearly bolted back into the observatory.

The bear was lying on the ground outside, its fur matted with blood. It didn't appear to be breathing. Brandon turned back towards Wendy and whispered, "Stay," then carefully made his way towards the front door. He shoved it open, and went out to inspect the bear's carcass. He prodded it cautiously with his foot, took note of the blood flowing from the bear's mouth and nose, and of the odd angle of the bear's head on its neck.

"It's OK," he said. "It's dead."

Wendy emerged slowly from the station, and stood beside Brandon. "What the hell did this?" she asked.

"No idea," Brandon said. "It looks like it's been beaten with a giant club, or something."

"It's a polar bear," Wendy said, her voice distant. "I've seen them at the San Diego Zoo. They look just like this. But polar bears can't live in this kind of heat. Can they?"

"I don't think so," Brandon said, his voice filled with uncertainty.

Wendy started shaking then, and backing away. "No, this can't be real," she said, her voice rising with hysteria. "None of this can be real. It can't be. It's too crazy, it's too crazy…" Brandon reached for her, but she turned and ran into the station.

Brandon followed her, and he found her lying on their bed and sobbing. "Hey," he said, kneeling beside the bed and putting an arm over her.

"Oh God, Brandon, this isn't possible," she sobbed. "The crash, this place, the bear… you… none of it's possible."

"Hey, we're OK, Wendy," he said softly. "We're both here, and we're both going to be OK."

"No," Wendy moaned, "no we're not. Don't you see, Brandon?" she said, lifting her head to look him in the eye. "We didn't survive that crash. It's impossible. And everything since then…"

Brandon pulled her close to him, and she resisted for a second, then raised her head and kissed him in desperate passion. Then they were pulling each other's clothes off and holding each other tightly and rocking together and moaning, feeling the life in each other's bodies, feeling their hearts beating and their backs arching, willing it to be real, demanding of the universe one simple sign, one human touch to prove that they were, in fact, alive after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8  
**_**August 23, 2002  
**__**Tustin, California**_

"_Uncle Frank!" Wendy squealed when she opened the door to her apartment. She greeted the older man with a big hug. "Come on in! Oh my God, it's good to see you."_

"_I came as quickly as I could after I heard the news," Frank said. "And I come bearing gifts!" He held up a bottle of scotch._

"_Oh, Frank, you're a lifesaver," she said, taking the bottle from him. And then her eyes went wide, and she said, "MacCutcheon? Wow…"_

"_Hey, you only get divorced once, unless you do it twice, like I did," Frank said. "Why not celebrate with the best?"_

"_I'll drink to that," Wendy said. "Let me get some glasses."_

"_I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner," Frank said, sitting down on the sofa. "I've been out of town – I had a gig in Portland, doing training videos for some big research foundation."_

"_That sounds like loads of boredom," Wendy teased, setting the glasses down and pouring two fingers of scotch for both of them._

"_Oh, you have no idea," Frank said. "I was playing the Very Serious Asian Scientist. Damn, how I hate that stereotype!" He lifted his glass and said, "Cheers!"_

_They both drank, and then Wendy said, "At least it wasn't a kung-fu movie again."_

_Frank laughed. "I'm still waiting for the role of the kung-fu scientist." He held his hands up in a mock martial-arts pose, and shouted theatrically, "Hiyaaa! My fists move so fast, they create a Casimir effect! Weyooo!"_

_Wendy collapsed on the sofa, laughing until tears streamed down her face. "Oh, God, Frank, I'm glad you're here!" she said._

_Frank took a swallow of scotch and said, "Hey, I couldn't leave you to the loving support of the rest of the Chou clan, could I?"_

"_Oh, God," Wendy said with a sigh. "They've been awful. Speaking of Asian stereotypes, Dad's been on my case for 'disgracing the family.' First he was disgraced because I married a white guy, now he's disgraced because I'm divorcing him."_

"_Yeah, I had a talk with him about that. He kept harping about how there's never been a divorce in the family. When I reminded him of my two breakups, he said I didn't count."_

_Wendy frowned. "Prick," she muttered._

_Frank just shook his head. "Phil always plays the 'you were adopted' card whenever he wants to piss me off." He took a drink, then added, "Works, too."_

"_And Mom blames me for the whole thing." Wendy said. "I didn't stay at home and be a good little subservient wife. And apparently I set a terrible example for Amy to follow."_

"_Any idea when it started?"_

"_Hell, it's been going on for almost a year and I hadn't noticed. Scott said he started sleeping with Amy when I was stuck in Jakarta after 9/11." She took a swallow of scotch, and said, "So while I was stuck in a foreign country and wondering if my plane would be blown up by Muslim terrorists when I finally did get to come home, he was banging my sister." _

"_To hell with them," Frank said, and raised his glass. "To divorce! It's hell, but it's better than the alternative!"_

"_God, yes," Wendy said, and took a huge swallow from her glass._

"_So, are you taking the family name back?" Frank asked._

"_What, do you think I'd keep Scott's name? I had no idea how much crap I'd take being named 'Wendy Williams'."_

"_I tried to warn you."_

"_Yeah, but I figured if I hadn't heard of her, nobody had."_

_Frank shook his head. "You try to teach kids a little culture, and do they appreciate it? No, never." He refilled both of their glasses. "So what's next for Wendy?"_

"_I don't know," Wendy said. "I've still got the job, at least."_

"_Yeah, but you hate it."_

"_But I'm damned good at it."_

"_So?" Frank challenged. "I was damned good at physics, but I wanted to be an actor. So what if I'm mediocre? I'm having a lot more fun than I would have had working in a lab at CalTech."_

"_But the money's damned good…"_

"_So what?" Frank asked again. "Life is too short to waste it doing something you hate just to make money."_

_Wendy stared at her glass. "You've got a point there, Frank."_

"_Just think about it, OK?" Franks said. "I hate to see you so unhappy. And you've been miserable ever since you took that job, whether you know it or not."_

* * *

_**September 24, 2004  
**__**The Hourglass Station**_

When Brandon woke up, he saw Wendy standing by the bedroom window, her face lit by the rays of the late-afternoon sun. He admired the view for a minute; she hadn't bothered to get dressed. Then he got out of the bed and went to stand behind her. She leaned back against him, and took his hands and pulled his arms around her.

"Hey," Brandon whispered.

"Hey yourself," she whispered back.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Just losing my mind, that's all," she said, and turned around to face him. "I'm honestly hoping that nobody ever finds us here."

"What, you mean you want to stay here?" Brandon asked.

"It's not so bad here, is it?" Wendy asked.

"Well, apart from the polar bears, no."

"Damn it, Brandon, I'm being serious!" Wendy snapped. "I know it's crazy! I said that already! And I don't care how crazy it is, because I'm afraid if we leave here it's all going to end!" She buried her face in his chest and sobbed.

Brandon held her for a minute, then said, "You still think all of this is impossible, don't you?"

"It is impossible!" she cried. "All of it! You know that! There's no way we could have survived that fall!"

"I know," Brandon said. "I know."

"So then, how do we know we can't stay here?" Wendy asked. "How do we know we could even leave if we wanted to?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Wendy said. "Maybe there's some reason for all of this, and we'll screw everything up if we leave. God, I don't know, it doesn't make sense even to me!"

"Hey, listen to me," Brandon said. "I want to promise you something. We're going to get out of here. I'm going to find a way. And when we go, we'll go together. You and me. And when we get back home, we can be together there too. We'll find a way to make it happen. OK?"

Wendy looked up at him, and after looking into Brandon's eyes for a minute, she nodded. "OK," she said. "OK."

They stood by the window and held each other until the sun set, then went back to the bed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9  
**_**September 25, 2004  
**__**The Island**_

Morning came, and with it dark clouds. "Looks like rain," Brandon said.

"Good," Wendy murmured, still wrapped in the bedsheets. "Let's just stay in bed all day."

"Not a good idea," Brandon pointed out. "If we don't leave here today, we're going to have the stench of a rotting bear carcass to deal with. I'm surprised we can't smell it already."

Wendy looked up at him sleepily. "Are you always this damned practical this early in the morning?"

"Afraid so," he said, grinning. "It's my biggest character flaw."

Wendy growled, and pulled the sheets over her head. Brandon laughed. "I'll make breakfast," he offered, "and then we can figure out what we're going to do next."

He picked his way through the wreckage of the cabin's front room, taking a glance out the window. What he saw – or more accurately, what he _didn't_ see – froze him in his tracks. He swore, and then forced the remnants of the front door open. He strode outside and stopped at a bloody patch of earth.

The dead polar bear had certainly been there. But now it was gone.

Brandon ran back into the cabin. "Wendy!" he shouted. "Get dressed, and try to find something to pack food into. We're getting out of here."

"What?" she called back, but Brandon was already in the kitchen, pulling cans of food out of the cupboards, deciding what to take. She went to the kitchen doorway, and asked, "What's going on?"

"Look out front," Brandon said. She did, and her face went pale.

"I don't know what did it, or when, or how," Brandon told her, "but I'm not staying around here with something that can drag off a thousand pounds of dead bear without making a sound."

"Right," Wendy said, backing away from the door. "Right." She went back into the bedroom, emerging a minute later dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts.

"We can use pillowcases as sacks," she said. "I couldn't find anything better."

Brandon nodded. "We should have kept that suitcase. I guess we'll make do with these. Let's pack what we can carry."

Ten minutes later they were out the door and headed down the hillside towards the beach. Rain began to fall, soaking them both in minutes, but Brandon kept moving, and Wendy had little choice but to follow.

"You know, whatever that thing was that killed the bear, it probably saved you life," Wendy said as they walked.

"Probably," Brandon agreed. "That doesn't mean that it's friendly. Do you want to bet your life that it is?"

"Couldn't we have just moved into the dome? Wouldn't that have been safer than hiking through the open like this?"

"Sure, we probably could have held out in the dome for a while," Brandon agreed. "But then what? We have no weapons and limited food. We could have wound up trapped there. On the beach, we'll at least be able to see them coming, and decide to run or hide according to the situation."

"This isn't a war, you know," Wendy observed.

"I know that," Brandon snapped. "But we're still fighting for survival."

"That doesn't mean you get to order me around like I'm one of your soldiers!"

Brandon stopped in his tracks and turned to face Wendy with a stern expression on his face. "Look, we don't have time for this. We have to find a safe place. We can't just sit and wait for something to happen. That's suicide," he said insistently. "Now, somewhere along the coast there has to be some kind of settlement. We'll just keep walking until we find it."

"I felt safer where we were," was her response.

"Well, you weren't, no matter what your feelings were," Brandon said curtly. "Now, come on." And he started down the trail again.

Wendy watched him for a minute, turned to look back the way they had come, and then set off down the trail behind Brandon, with an unhappy expression on her face that Brandon didn't see.

Before long, they came to the beach. "Now what?" Wendy asked.

Brandon looked northward, and said, "It looked like it would be marginally easier going this way." And he set off marching again.

"So how do you know there's not a big town just out of sight the other direction?" Wendy asked.

"I don't," Brandon said. "But we had to make a choice, so I made one."

Wendy stopped, and gave Brandon a cold stare. Brandon turned around when he realized that she wasn't following, and asked, "What?"

Wendy shook her head in frustration. "You really don't have a clue, do you?" She started walking again, muttering, "Come on, if we're going this way, then let's go."

Brandon shot her a confused look as she passed him, but she didn't acknowledge it. Just then, the storm that had been threatening them all morning suddenly broke, and they were both soaked to the skin within seconds.

"Here's another good reason we should have stayed put," Wendy called over her shoulder. "I didn't plan on being in a wet t-shirt contest."

"It's just a little rain," Brandon pointed out. "It's warm enough, and we'll dry out quickly enough when it stops."

Wendy didn't say anything after that. For the next hour, they marched silently down the beach through the pouring rain.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped, and the sun came out.

"What the hell…" Brandon muttered.

"What is it?" Wendy asked.

"Look," he said, pointing ahead of them. "It's some kind of stone column. It doesn't look natural."

They both jogged along the beach towards the column, which was made of a grayish stone completely unlike the orange-brown volcanic rocks that were all they had seen on the island. As they got closer, they saw that the column was about thirty feet tall, and had a broad, irregular base. "It looks like a giant foot," Wendy said.

"Yeah, it does," Brandon agreed. "And if just the foot and ankle are this tall…" He tilted his head back, imaging where the head of the giant statue would be if it was intact.

Wendy climbed up the rocks that surrounded the foot, and put a hand on the stone of the statue itself. "This is weird," she said. "It only has four toes."

Brandon jumped up after her. "Did one break off? No, I guess not," he said. "Looks like they carved it this way deliberately, whoever they were."

"What kind of a person only has four toes?" she asked.

Brandon shrugged. "I knew a guy who lost one toe on his left foot in Kuwait," he said. "Maybe it's a statue of him."

Wendy gave him a dirty look, and then her eyes went wide. "Brandon," she whispered, "There's a man behind you, and he's got a gun."

Brandon turned, and then froze. About twenty yards away there was a man with long, tangled grayish-brown hair, wearing a tattered khaki coverall, and pointing a rifle directly at them. He slowly raised his hands.

"That's right," the stranger said in an intense Southern accent. "Don't try anything funny now. Just come on down real slow, like."

"We're not armed," Brandon said, climbing carefully down from the rocks. "We're just lost. We were in a plane…"

"Yeah, I saw it," the man said. "Don't mean you ain't hostile, though."

"We aren't hostile," Brandon assured him. "We don't even know where we are."

"Right," the man said suspiciously. And then his eyes went wide. "Well, I'll be… _Lieutenant?"_

"What?" Brandon asked, giving the man a long stare. The stranger's face was obscured by his hair and beard, but there was something oddly familiar about the voice.

"Lieutenant McDaniel! Goddamn, it _is_ you!" the stranger drawled in his thick-as-molasses accent, lowering his weapon. "Sorry, sir, the sergeant didn't tell me you was coming."

"You _know_ this guy?" Wendy asked.

Brandon saw that the man had the name ALBERT stenciled on his coverall, and suddenly it all fell into place. "Albert… _Futrell?"_ he asked, not quite believing it.

"Good to see you again, Lieutenant," said the former private, giving Brandon a gap-toothed grin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10  
**_**February 27, 1991  
**__**Kuwait**_

_Four days into the Allied ground assault, and Lieutenant McDaniel's platoon had seen little real action. The soldiers of the Iraqi Army had either run as quickly as they could in the face of the overwhelming Allied force, or surrendered in large numbers without a fight. "A cakewalk," Sergeant Gunter had labeled it. McDaniel couldn't tell if Gunter was pleased or disappointed by the lack of Iraqi resistance._

_They'd advanced northward for three days into Iraq, and then the US 1__st__ Infantry had been ordered to turn east to secure the Kuwaiti oil fields. Retreating Republican Guard troops had set many of the wells on fire, and the eastern sky was black with thick smoke that blotted out the early morning sun. The massive oil well fires lit the clouds from beneath, tingeing them crimson. Dante would have approved, McDaniel thought. Hell on Earth, and he was marching straight into it._

_And then some cut-off Republican Guards decided to make a stand instead of surrendering. It was suicide for them, and damned inconvenient for the men of the Big Red One. They had taken shelter in a small village, inside a mosque, which meant that the locals were not going to be happy about what the Americans were preparing to do to it. Fortunately none of the local population had stuck around to register a protest. Still, McDaniel felt a bit like he was preparing to assault the First Presbyterian Church of Fort Stockton, Texas – it just didn't feel right._

_But he kept that thought to himself, and ordered his men into position for the assault. There was damned little cover – the terrain here was nearly as flat as West Texas, and drier to boot. But the mosque had to be taken, and so McDaniel led the advance, using the rubble of what probably had been houses for cover as long as they could._

_Suddenly there was the sound of machine gun fire, and Sergeant Gunter went down, swearing loudly. Everyone else hit the dirt and tried to become one with the Kuwaiti rocks. Futrell dragged Gunter to safety. The old noncom was cursing a blue streak and holding his foot – part of the left boot had been shot away, and blood was flowing out of it into the sand._

"_Goddamnit! Get the medics up here!" McDaniel shouted. "Where's that gun?"_

"_I saw it, Lieutenant," Futrell said. "One of the windows in that there building next to the mosque. Grenade oughta take care of it."_

_McDaniel nodded. "Go for it. Walton, go with him," he ordered. "Everyone else, keep them covered."_

_McDaniel's men opened fire on the mosque and the small building next to it while Futrell and Walton sprinted across the open ground. Futrell pulled the pin on a grenade, tossed it through an open window, and ducked down underneath it, flattening himself against the wall. The explosion blew chunks of brick and mortar across the town square, and then all was silent._

"_Advance!" McDaniel ordered. "Take that mosque!"_

_Ten minutes later, it was all over. The Iraqis were either dead or prisoners, and the way to the oil fields was clear again._

"_Good work, Futrell," McDaniel shouted. The private grinned and flashed him a thumbs-up._

_McDaniel went back and found the medics working on Gunter's foot. "Motherfuckers shot my goddamned little toe off!" Gunter shouted._

"_Easy, Sergeant," the medics said. "That morphine ought to be kicking in any second now."_

"_Fuck the morphine!" Gunter roared. "I want that goddamned Iraqi who did this to me!"_

"_Too late, Sergeant," McDaniel said. "Futrell already got him."_

"_Goddamn," Gunter swore. "Told you that little redneck cocksucker was worth something, didn't I, sir?"_

"_Yes, you did, Sergeant," McDaniel said. And then, "Goddamn it, Gunter, how the hell am I supposed to keep these goons marching straight without you ramrodding them?"_

"_Well, shit, sir," Gunter said, "I figure you'll think of something."_

_**

* * *

**__**September 25, 2004  
**__**The Island**_

"Let me get this straight," Wendy said. "This guy was in your unit in the Gulf War."

"Sure was," Futrell said over his shoulder. He had told them to follow him to a "safe place", and had set off into the jungle, limping badly.

Brandon nodded. "Yes, he was. Earned himself a Bronze Star, too."

"Is that how he got the limp?"

"Nope," Futrell answered again. "Got through the whole war without a scratch, didn't I, Lieutenant?"

Brandon nodded. "Three weeks after we got back to Fort Benning, a drunk driver ran a red light and broadsided Futrell's SUV. Broke his leg in three places."

"Yessir, and I am o-ficially fifteen percent disabled, ain't I, Lieutenant?"

"More or less," Brandon agreed.

"So what the hell is he doing here?" Wendy asked.

Again, Futrell spoke up. "Well, I might could ask what the hell you're doing here with the Lieutenant, running around in nothing but a wet t-shirt!"

"It was raining," Wendy pointed out. "It was a dry t-shirt before that."

"Oh, okay," Futrell said, nodding and grinning hugely."

"So what the hell _are_ you doing here, Futrell?" Brandon asked.

"Well, sir, after I was out of the hospital, the Sergeant got in touch with me."

"You mean Gunter?"

"Yessir, Sergeant Gunter. Said he got hired by some big private security outfit after he got his discharge. Said he could get me a job there too. So here I am."

Brandon looked around. "Just what the hell are you supposed to be guarding, Futrell?"

"Well, sir, that there's a long story," Futrell said. "You see, this island was run by some big top-secret project called the Dharma Initiative."

"Okay, I'm with you so far," Brandon answered.

"And there were these hostile natives on the island, didn't much like them being here."

"So you were supposed to guard against the natives?"

"Yessir, except when they attacked, they cheated. They used gas."

"Wait a minute," Brandon said. "Some bare-ass island natives had _poison gas?_"

"Yessir," Futrell nodded. "Gunter got a few folks to safety. I stayed behind to round up whoever else I could. Except there weren't no one else."

"Right," Brandon said doubtfully. "When did all of this happen?"

"Lessee, it was – end of '92, December I think."

Brandon stopped in his tracks. "You mean you've been here alone for _twelve years?"_

"Has it been that long?" Futrell asked. "Damn, I lost track of time."

Brandon shot a concerned look at Wendy. Wendy simply shrugged. "Hey, I'm the one who believes all of this is impossible, remember? A few more impossible things won't change that."

Brandon looked back at Futrell, who was grinning idiotically. "Albert, where is Sergeant Gunter now?"

"Hell, Lieutenant, he comes and goes," Futrell said. "He comes and talks to me sometimes, then he up and disappears back into the jungle."

Brandon nodded. "But you know where he took those people he rescued."

"Oh yeah," Futrell said. "Can't get there from here, though." He turned and started walking again. "One place we can get to, though, is my cave. The Hostiles don't know about it. All these years, they never done found it."

"So, you think it's safe to go with this guy?" Wendy whispered.

"Who the hell knows?" Brandon responded. "He's crazy, that's clear enough. But he does know this place." And he started following Futrell.

Wendy just shook her head. "I'm nuts, that's what it is," she muttered to herself. "I'm really sitting in a room in the hospital in Santa Rosa, under heavy medication." And she hurried to catch up to the two men.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11  
**_**September 25, 2004  
**__**The Island**_

Futrell's "cave" turned out to be more than just the hole in the ground that Brandon had feared. The opening was well-disguised behind a banyan tree, but the cave itself turned out to be seven feet high and twelve feet broad, and it vanished straight back into the stone of the island as far as he could see. A small stream trickled down the middle of the cave floor, but it was otherwise reasonably dry and clean.

"Not bad, is it, sir?" Futrell said, grinning.

"I'll be damned," Wendy said, looking up at the ceiling. "It's a lava tube."

Both of the men looked at her curiously. Wendy frowned and said, "Hey, I was a geology major, all right?"

"Um, OK," Brandon said. "So what's a lava tube?"

Wendy grinned. "It forms during a volcanic eruption, when a lava flow develops a hard outer crust but stays liquid on the inside. When the eruption's over, the lava drains out, and you've got a big hollow rock tube. Just like this." She waved her arm towards the depths of the cave. "They can go on for miles sometimes."

"And this one sure does," Futrell added. "I been way back in there. There's a hole in the roof about a mile back where there was a cave-in. Don't know how much further it goes than that. I didn't want to get stuck trying to crawl through them rocks."

"Probably a good idea," Brandon said.

"Got me a place to sleep and store my food about a hundred yards in," Futrell said. "Been here for years, and nobody ever done found me."

"Are you sure there's even anybody left to find you?" Brandon asked.

"Oh, yeah," Futrell drawled. "I seen 'em. They didn't see me, though." He grinned slyly.

Wendy shot Brandon a look, and Brandon asked, "Can you tell me where they are?"

Futrell nodded. "They moved into the old Dharma Initiative barracks after they done kilt everyone else," he said. "They got a fence, but I know how to get under it."

Brandon nodded slowly. "Albert, I think tomorrow you and I need to do some recon. I want to see this place."

"Me too," added Wendy.

"All right, then," Brandon said. "So you've been living on your own here for twelve years?"

"Didn't know it was that long, but yessir. Been sneaking around, keeping an eye on them, and keeping away from the bears. Ain't that hard to do once you get to know 'em."

"What exactly _are_ those bears?" Wendy asked.

"Didn't expect to see polar bears, did you?" Futrell asked with a big grin. "Way it was described to me, they – the Dharma Initiative, I mean – needed some bears for some experiments they was doing." He shrugged. "Musta got free when the Hostiles attacked."

"What kind of experiments?" Wendy prompted.

"Well, what they said was, women on this island can't have no babies. I mean, they can get knocked up, but about six months in, they up and die. This don't happen to any of the animals on the island – I mean, the pigs can breed just fine, and so can the chickens. Dogs, cats, cows, horses, they ain't got no trouble here. But for some reason, the bears got the same problem that the women do. So they was tryin' to figger out why, and how to fix it."

"Right," said Wendy, looking skeptical.

"Leastways, that's what they told us," Futrell added. "Course, they didn't always tell us what they was really up to. I weren't nothin' but a mushroom."

"Well, tomorrow, we'll all go check this out, and see what the real story is," Brandon said. "Right now, let's eat." He grabbed his pillowcase-sack and started pulling out some cans of food.

"Well, I can see you done raided one of the Dharma caches," Futrell said. "Where'd you find it?"

"Observatory up on top of the ridge," Brandon explained. "Hourglass Station, or something like that. Didn't want to stay there too long, though."

Futrell nodded. "Yeah, you was smart to get out of there quick as you could. Them Hostiles still like to check on that place every now and again."

Wendy held up two cans of food that she had pulled from her sack. "Peaches or pork and beans for lunch?" she asked.

Futrell grinned. "I can toss in some peanuts and canned tuna," he offered. "Ain't too bad. Better than what the Army fed me, anyways."

"What the hell do the Hostiles want with that observatory, anyway?" Brandon asked.

"Well, I don't know for sure," Futrell said, scratching his nose. "It ain't just an observatory, you see."

"Really?" Brandon asked. "What is it, then?"

"Now, if I was to tell you I understood what they was really doing there, I'd be lying to you," Futrell said. "Lots of weird stuff they talked about, like cashmere effect and exotic dancers. I don't know what any of it meant."

"You mean Casimir effect?" Wendy asked.

Brandon and Futrell both gave her blank looks. "What's that?" Brandon asked.

"My dad's a physicist," she explained, "and my uncle almost finished his PhD before he dropped out of Cal Tech to become an actor. They used to talk about this kind of stuff." She sighed. "Wish I could remember more of what they said."

"Might be worth going back to check it out," Brandon said.

Futrell looked unhappy. "If them Hostiles find out you been there…"

"We'll have to be careful," Brandon said. "Go in, find out what we can, get out." He picked up a can of beans. "Now let's eat. I've got a can opener in my bag…"

"Lemme go back and get some tuna," Futrell said, vanishing into the blackness of the cave.

When he was out of sight, Wendy stood and walked to the mouth of the cave, looking out into the jungle.

"Hey, something wrong?" Brandon asked.

"Well, I'm pretty pissed off at you, if you want to know," she answered, keeping her back to him. "If I thought it was safe to walk through the jungle alone, I'd have been out of here hours ago."

"What?" Brandon stood and walked over to stand next to her.

"You were being a real jerk all morning," she said quietly. "And Albert creeps me out, even if you do know him. Hell, _because_ you know him – it's too much of a coincidence."

"Yeah, I know it's pretty weird…" Brandon began.

"I'd be running through the jungle as fast as I could to get away from here," Wendy continued, "except that I really don't want to be alone in the middle of all of this weirdness, and even if you are a complete asshole, you're still the nicest guy I've met in a while."

Brandon thought silently for a minute. Then he said, "Hey, I'm sorry if I went all military on you this morning, but it's how I deal with bad situations. I can't stand to just sit and do nothing, and I've been trained to take command."

"Yeah, well, keep Captain America under control if you can, OK?" Wendy asked.

Brandon nodded. "OK. I'll try, anyway. I can't promise I'll always succeed."

"Good enough." Wendy suddenly turned and put her arms around him. "Because I _don't_ want to sleep alone tonight. I just don't feel safe with Albert around."

"What, you want me to protect you from Futrell?" Brandon asked, grinning.

Wendy grinned back. "I promise I'll make it worth the effort."

"Hey, you two," Futrell abruptly announced from farther back in the cave. "I guess I oughta tell you that sound carries pretty darned well in here."

Wendy gave Brandon an embarrassed smile, and Brandon said, "Understood, Private. I'll take it under advisement."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12  
**_**May 4, 1997  
**__**Los Angeles, California**_

"_It is unacceptable," Philip Chou said with a tone of absolute finality in his voice._

_Wendy's father had a look of barely controlled fury on his face, which in the past would have made his daughter back down instantly. But not this time. "What's unacceptable about it?" she challenged._

"_Everything!" her father shot back. "You were going to go to graduate school, not work as a salesgirl!"_

"_It's not a 'salesgirl' job, Dad," Wendy insisted. "I'm an international sales associate. It's a professional career with a decent starting salary, good commission, and benefits."_

"_And what does this company make?"_

"_Packaging materials," she answered._

"_What do you mean, 'packaging materials'?"_

_Wendy sighed. "Cardboard boxes, Dad."_

"_What?" Her father shook his head. "Wendy, you were training to be a scientist. You were going to get your doctorate. You would have been extending the frontiers of human knowledge, not… selling boxes!"_

"_Dad, it's not like I'm going to stay there forever. It's only for a year or two. I just need a break before I go back to grad school. It's just so I can save up some money."_

"_You mean it's just so you can move to Tustin and live with that boy!" her father sneered. "It's bad enough that he's not Cambodian, but you aren't even married to him!"_

"_For God's sake, Dad, this isn't Cambodia!" Wendy protested. "There just aren't that many Cambodian men around!"_

"_You can do better than him," Wendy's mother chimed in._

"_Now don't you start too, Mom! Scott's a good man, and he's landed a good job with a start-up software company. If it takes off, he'll be rich!"_

"_No." Wendy's father slammed his fist down onto the arm of his chair. "I won't allow my daughter to live with a man out of wedlock. It isn't decent."_

_Wendy rolled her eyes. "Dad, are you blind or something?" She held up her left hand, displaying a diamond ring._

_Her father narrowed his eyes and stared. "When did this happen?"_

"_Last night," Wendy said. "I came here to tell you about it, but you started yelling before I could."_

_Her father didn't look appeased. "He hasn't come to ask my permission," he grumbled._

"_He doesn't need to," Wendy said._

"_This is not how it would have been done in Cambodia."_

"_Dad, like it or not, this is America, and I'm going to act like an American woman. Because that's what I am."_

_Her father shook his head in dismay, but then Wendy's mother spoke up. "Philip, perhaps we should talk more about this later," she said softly._

_Philip Chou slumped down in his chair, looking defeated. "You're a very headstrong girl, do you know that, Wendy?" he said, sounding gloomy._

"_Wonder where that comes from?" she asked._

_Her father sighed. "All right, since you're going to do things your own way anyway, I suppose I can't stop you." Then he looked at her sternly and said, "I have your word? Only a year, and you'll go back to graduate school?"_

_Wendy nodded. "Two years, tops. Don't worry, Dad. I'm not going to be selling boxes for the rest of my life."_

* * *

_**September 25, 2004  
**__**The Lava Tube**_

Futrell had an impressive cache of supplies inside his cave. He told Brandon and Wendy that he'd been raiding the defunct Dharma Initiative stations for food and supplies for years, and had every kind of equipment imaginable, including a queen-sized inflatable camp mattress that he offered them. "I'll sleep out in the tree," he said, giving them a wink. "I got a hammock up there that I use on warm nights."

They hadn't argued. After dinner (Dharma Initiative canned chicken soup, cooked on a Dharma Initiative portable propane stove), Futrell headed out of the cave, and Brandon and Wendy set up the bed.

They didn't fall into each other's arms with the wild, desperate abandon that had seized them the previous night. Instead it was a slower kind of passion, more exploratory, more sensual, the passion of two people becoming familiar with each others' bodies, discovering what aroused each other and what sent the two of them into the heights of ecstasy.

Later, they lay in each others' arms in the dark cave, both happy and drenched in sweat, gently stroking each other, not talking, simply taking comfort in each others' presence.

After a while, Wendy murmured, "You know what's funny?"

"Hm?" Brandon murmured back, half asleep.

"I don't even know where you live."

"Oh." Brandon chuckled softly. "Garland, Texas. It's outside of Dallas."

"Never heard of it. Nice place?"

Brandon shrugged. "Can't complain. It's better than any other place I've lived, at least."

"So where else have you lived?"

"I grew up in Rock Hill, South Carolina. Went to college at Clemson, then was stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia most of my time in the Army. Spent a few months in a hell-hole of a desert camp in Saudi Arabia, which made Fort Benning look nice. A few more months in Somalia, which made Saudi Arabia look nice. Then off to scenic Garland."

Wendy sighed softly. "I've never lived outside of California. LA, then Davis for college, and now Tustin, south of LA."

"Nice place?"

"Well, I suppose," Wendy said. "Though I'm not staying there if we ever get out of this place." She started laughing softly.

"What's so funny?" Brandon asked.

"I was just thinking. If I'd listened to my dad, I'd probably be leading the glamorous and exciting life of a junior scientist with the U.S. Geologic Survey in Wyoming or someplace like that, instead of lying in a cave on an island God knows where in the South Pacific."

"So are you going to listen to him next time?"

"Oh, hell no," Wendy said, snuggling up to Brandon.

"Good," Brandon said, laughing.

"Oh, God, this is all too crazy," Wendy said between giggles. "Where's my shirt? I have to go pee."

"You need a shirt for that?"

"Hey, Albert is out there in that tree in the mouth of the cave. I don't want him seeing me walking around naked."

"Don't worry about Futrell," Brandon said. "He's gay."

"He's – what?"

"Gay," Brandon repeated. "I pretended not to notice while we were in the Army, as long as he kept it discreet and didn't do anything on-base. But yeah, you're not his type."

"Hm." Wendy started searching through the tangle of covers. "Still, I'd rather not run around naked in the jungle."

Brandon laughed, but reached down beside the bed and found one of their discarded t-shirts. "Here," he said. "But you'd be less visible in just your skin."

"Oh, stop it," Wendy said, pulling the shirt on over her head. "I'll be right back."

The moon was low on the horizon, giving her just enough light to see where she was walking. She needed only a couple of minutes to find a concealed spot and take care of business; then she hurried back to the cave. She was almost back when she heard a voice.

She froze, straining to listen. It was Futrell's voice; there was no mistaking that drawl. She could make out no words, but his tone sounded conversational. If there was anyone else there for him to speak with, though, she could neither see nor hear them.

As quietly as she could, she crept closer. Futrell's voice was still the only one she heard, but she could hear what he was saying.

"You sure about that?" she heard him ask. "If them Hostiles catch 'em, it ain't gonna do nobody no good." There was a long pause, and then, "Not if they shoots first and asks questions later, they ain't." After another pause, she heard, "Well, I reckon I'll do it then. Don't much like it, but if that's what's got to be done, I'll do it."

The conversation seemed to end after that, and Wendy made her way as quietly as she could back to the cave.

"Brandon," she whispered as soon as she found the bed.

"Mmm?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Futrell was out there," she said quietly. "And he sounded like he was talking to somebody. I didn't see or hear anyone else, though."

"Hmm," Brandon said, waking himself up. "Is it possible there wasn't anyone else there?"

"Maybe," Wendy admitted.

"He's been alone for twelve years. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if he'd invented an imaginary friend or two for himself." Brandon yawned. "What did he say?"

Wendy repeated what she had heard, and Brandon said, "OK, I'll ask him in the morning. I'll bet it's just his imagination, though."

Wendy shuddered as she slid into bed next to Brandon. "I wish I could be sure about that," she said, wrapping her arms tightly around him.


End file.
